


Light Shines Through Dust

by cxnstellations



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-09-17
Packaged: 2019-07-13 17:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16022762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cxnstellations/pseuds/cxnstellations
Summary: Their hearts cannot break because they were raised not to have them. (But really, aren’t all things made to be broken?)





	Light Shines Through Dust

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, my first official work on here! This was originally posted over at FFN, but I figured I’d broaden my horizons a bit. Enjoy!

_Their hearts cannot break because they were raised not to have them. (But really, aren't all things made to be broken?)_

* * *

They first encounter each other when he is eleven and she is ten, and they are learning how to kill.

Cato was always drawn to close-quarter weapons. He learned this last year, when he first began his training. Sure, the spear is useful, and he has no problem with distance or power, but with a sword, with a machete, he can watch up close as his opponent's eyes flash with fear, reflecting the silver glow of the blade.

Clove is much more adept to the throwing knives, and despite it being her first year at the Academy, she knows that they are _her_ weapon. They are delicate, dangerous, _deadly._ They fit perfectly into her tiny hands, and one trainer tells her that knives are ideal for those of a smaller stature like herself—they provide range and accuracy, if wielded correctly.

One day, Cato and a few of the other boys his age meander over to where the first-years are training. Their heads are inflated with superiority, despite the single year of difference between themselves and the newest additions, and they all find some kind of jibe or insult to distract each and every newbie. It seems to throw the younger kids off in nearly every situation. That is, until it's Clove's turn.

"Look at the little runt," says one boy, Mace.

"Yeah, the knives are as big as she is," snickers another, Judas.

Cato, however, is quiet. It's true that she is tiny for her age, a stark contrast to the typically-larger builds of District 2, but something about her has Cato thinking that there's more to her than what meets the eye. Unlike the other new recruits, she completely ignores his friends' commentary, not even sparing them a glare. Instead she is completely focused on the target that has popped up twenty yards away, a dummy with a large bullseye painted on its chest.

Her dark eyes narrow in concentration, the fluorescent overhead lighting giving them an almost predatory glint. Cato finds her beautiful.

Whatever jabs his friends were about to toss into existence die on their lips, as the small girl winds up and throws the dagger in one swift motion. It spirals neatly through the air before connecting to its target with a quick, dull _thwump._ Every spectator, trainer and trainee alike, stop in their tracks to marvel at what they just witnessed. Cato feels the corners of his lips twitch upward.

The hilt of the knife protrudes from the dummy, and the blade is lodged directly where its heart would be.

* * *

They eventually become rivals of some sort, each one the perfect match for the other.

Cato is large, brutal. He is strong and confident and easily one of the most well-rounded students of the Academy by the age of sixteen.

Clove is small, merciless. She is lithe and intelligent and easily one of the most talented females the district has ever produced by the age of fifteen.

They both, however, are heartless. One of the first lessons taught to the children of District 2 is that feeling is weakness. Pity, empathy, sadness, love. None of these things will keep them alive in the Games, so they are better off without them. Their passion should be bloodshed, their dedication should be to the Academy. And Cato and Clove take it seriously.

Their sparring matches are both physical and verbal; their competitions are both mental and manual. But despite this inbred competitiveness, this supposed mutual hatred, there is one underlying feeling that neither of them can shake, nor are willing to admit to—respect.

They have become almost co-dependent, really. They are _Cato-and-Clove,_ an exclusive and elite club of two. They won't duel anyone else, won't train with anyone else. From an outsider's perspective, one may even think that the two are an item. But they, of course, know better. The feeling Clove gets when she sees a new girl fawning over Cato every week, the sensation that washes over Cato when he catches the other boys checking Clove out, they are simply mere annoyances at the fact that these could distract the other from their training. And they couldn't have that, could they?

When the 74th Reaping comes around and the district is gathered in the square, Cato volunteers, practically lunges forward, sending a shocked murmur through the crowd. Sixteen years old, and already volunteering as tribute? He allows himself a smirk as he strides toward the stage, basking in the whispers of awe that radiate behind him.

Immediately, something begins to boil inside of Clove. Cato wants to volunteer early? Wants so badly to prove that he's better than she is?

Well, fine. Two can play at this game.

Her voice cuts through the square, sharp and cold and confident. She is only fifteen years old, also too young to volunteer, but she does it anyway.

The girl who was first reaped tries to protest, but Clove doesn't care. The girl is foolish enough to charge, fingers curled into fists and eyes blazing. She is easily twice the size of Clove, all meat and muscle, but none of that matters when she is left bleeding on the ground.

Clove makes it to the stage like she knew she would, unbothered by the Peacekeepers clutching her arms, restraining her from finishing what she started. She catches Cato's eye, and his expression is one of confusion, anger. She allows herself a small smirk as their escort orders them to shake hands.

She's ready.

* * *

"You're a fucking idiot."

"Oh, screw off."

Cato drags his hands through his hair, causing the blond strands to spike up in every direction as he paces the floor of the train. Clove sits in the plush chair before him, leaning unbothered onto her hand, elbow propped on the chair's arm. "No, I mean it, Clove," says Cato again. "You're a goddamn _idiot._ "

"Will you relax?" she snaps. "So, I volunteered. What's the big deal?"

"The big deal?" Cato repeats, stopping his pacing to wheel on her. "What's the _big deal?_ Clove, we're going into the Games together."

"Who cares?"

"I do!" he shouts. The veins in his neck and his forehead have begun to protrude, his muscles rippling as he clenches and unclenches his fists. She likes getting him riled up. It's just so... _easy._ "You ruined everything, Kentwell." She doesn't bother trying to decipher the meaning behind his words, maybe from fear of the weight they hold, so she distracts herself with another point.

_Last-name basis, huh?_ she thinks, cocking one eyebrow. This gets her on her feet and she takes two steps forward, until she is maybe six inches from him. He towers over her, as he always has, and she is unphased, as she always is.

"Big. Fucking. Whoop, Hadley," she says, voice dripping with sarcasm. "You know what I think?" He doesn't answer, only glares down at her, so she continues. "I think you're scared of me," she says. "You're _terrified_ that little Clove is going to beat you in the Games, that I may even be the one to _kill_ you. How embarrassing would that be, huh? Taken down by your district partner, by the person who you're always at odds w—"

She doesn't get to finish, because the next thing she knows she is pinned against the wall with his forearm at her throat. It happens fast enough that it knocks both the wind and the words out of her, and she is left staring up at him with her mouth agape. "You think you could kill me?" he demands lowly, eyes narrowing in anger. "You think you have _any_ semblance of a chance at outlasting me in the arena?"

They're face-to-face, gazes locked. The pressure he's putting on her trachea is beginning to cause a bit of discomfort, but she refuses to give him the satisfaction of seeing her in pain. Instead, she sneers up at him as menacingly and as smugly as possible. "Please," she says. "I _know_ I could outlast you. Easily, too."

So, maybe she's exaggerating. Still, she doesn't like his tone, his high-and-mighty complex. He needs his ego checked, and hell if Clove lets him undermine her own.

"No," he says, shaking his head with slight smile, his voice lowering even further. "No. In fact, if I didn't know any better," he leans forward, until their noses are nearly touching and she can feel his breath on her face, "I'd say that _you're_ the one who should be scared of _me_."

She doesn't say anything, only tries to keep her breathing even as his eyes flicker across her face. Jaw set, he shakes his head, looking away and stepping back as he releases her from the wall. He seems annoyed at his inability to get a rise out of her. When he turns back to her, she meets his glare with her own.

"You're lucky we're allies," he tells her. "Otherwise you'd be dead before you even step off that platform."

He storms away after that, slipping through the sliding doors of the train compartment. Clove watches him disappear, her glare gradually softening to a frown.

Her heart is beating much too quickly for her liking.

* * *

Preparation for the interviews is a blur. Clove is barely aware of the stylists that flit around her in a flurry of bright colors and expensive perfume, pays no mind to the way they make her up. She doesn't care how she looks. She isn't superficial. The important thing tonight is how she presents herself, how she appears to the Capitol and the rest of Panem.

_"We're thinking sweet, but with an edge,"_ Enobaria had said. _"Sarcastic. Fearless. You're likable, but the second somebody even_ looks _at you the wrong way, you're cutthroat."_

_Sweet_ hadn't been the most exciting term for Clove to hear. Not once in her life has she been described in such a way. Still, she supposes her team knows what they're doing, and therefore doesn't bring herself to argue.

As she waits in line behind Glimmer and Marvel, she crosses her arms lowly. The peachy orange material of her dress— _tulle,_ she believes is what her stylist called it—itches, and her feet are beginning to ache in the nude pumps her feet have been shoved into. The Capitol better love her, she thinks, because she's beginning to question if the discomfort is worth it.

"Ease up, will you?" murmurs a voice in her ear as Glimmer is called to the stage. The hair on the back of her neck rises and she fights a shiver as she turns to glare at Cato, finding her face only inches from his. Eye contact is made easier now that she's closer to his height, and she tries to distract herself from the way that his blue, satin blazer brings out the color in his irises. She can't be thinking like this. Attraction might as well be affection, and affection will get her killed.

And so she scoffs, turning back to face the small television mounted to the wall. Glimmer has just said something apparently funny, as the audience lets out a ripple of laughter. "I'm very much at ease, thank you," she bites out, quietly enough that only he can hear her.

"Please," Cato laughs lightly, humorlessly. "You want out of that dress and I know it."

She says nothing, choosing ignorance as Glimmer materializes backstage once more and Marvel makes his way out. However, the next comment from her district partner gets under her skin, and she can't help but wheel on him after he speaks it.

"I'd be willing to help you out of it, if you weren't so defensive."

She turns to face him fully this time, shooting him her best death glare. Infuriatingly enough, he only grins smugly back at her.

"You cocky, self-righteous, _obnoxious_ son of a—"

"Careful now," he cuts her off, one eyebrow raised. "As I recall, you're supposed to be sweet, aren't you?"

His eyes suddenly widen as he feels the tip of her blade against his abdomen. So, she concealed a weapon in the sash of her dress. She feels naked without a knife; sue her.

She grins wickedly at Cato's obvious surprise. _You're supposed to be sweet, aren't you?_ "Sure, I am," she says lowly, her words dripping with honey glaze, "but with an _edge_ , of course."

Marvel returns, and she quickly slips the dagger back into her dress. She strides confidently onto the stage, plastering a fake smile on her face and waving to the cheering crowd. Not once does she look back at her district partner.

* * *

They're arguing, worse than they ever have before. Maybe their stress levels are heightened due to it being the eve of the Games, or something like that, but Clove can't remember the last time she's felt so much _loathing_ for one person. It coils in the pit of her stomach, bubbles up into her throat and spills past her lips in the form ruthless insults and scalding remarks.

In all honesty, she isn't sure what they're even arguing about. Her vision is red, hazy, caught up in the way Cato's eyes burn and his fists clench as he fires equally-intense jabs her way.

She remembers shouting something about him being a shallow brute in retort to one particular comment, shoving his shoulder for good measure. Naturally, he shoves her right back, until they're in an all-out shoving match which ends, much like their argument on the train, with her back pressed to the wall as he pins her body with his own. This time it feels different, though. It's as if the air between them is humming with energy, as if it's a weathered elastic only one tug away from snapping.

He glares down at her.

She scowls up at him.

The elastic snaps.

His lips are on hers in a heartbeat, rough and violent and bruising. Her head slams back into the wall from the abrupt force, and she retaliates by digging her fingernails into his shoulders and biting down on his lower lip, until she is tasting metallic. The kiss is not loving, or gentle—rather, it is angry, raw. It is the result of five years of unresolved tension and hatred, all building up to this.

They break apart simultaneously, breathing heavily and still glowering at one another. Her cheeks are flushed, lips swollen, and his lower lip is bloody.

Neither one of them needs to speak before they're on each other again.

Her fingers rake through his hair this time, tugging at the blond strands as he grips her waist with a force that is sure to leave bruises. Their teeth clack and their tongues meet and then they're moving. Somehow they make it to Cato's room, stumbling inside as he kicks the door shut behind them. They are too far gone to stop now.

It's wrong, so wrong, and she knows that it is. But her mind is cloudy and she doesn't have time to think too much, because desire is taking over and everything is on fire.

* * *

So, Glimmer's a bimbo, apparently.

Clove knows it's an unfair assumption. She knows that Glimmer is a fellow Career and therefore a strong competitor. But that doesn't mean she has to like her.

Especially when she's throwing herself all over Cato like that. And he just lets her do it.

God, does he even _care_ about the Games? It's like he's completely forgotten what they've come here for. Fleetingly, Clove thinks that she could remind him by offing Glimmer in her sleep, but she shoves the thought away. It isn't time to break alliances yet.

So she sits and she stews and she snaps at everybody who even dares speak to her. Marvel and Sirena, the girl from 4, seem to have learned their lessons, and even Glimmer seems weary. Lover Boy doesn't speak anyway, so he isn't a problem. Cato, however, seems to look right through her, seems to know just what she's thinking.

She loathes him for it.

* * *

Thankfully, her shiny little problem doesn't last long.

It's the fifth day in the arena, and Clove is woken to an incessant buzzing right in her ear. Groaning in her tired state, she swats the bug away.

Her eyes fly open when she feels its sting.

She shouts to alert the others as the tracker jackers swarm the pack. They're all awake in no time, immediately screaming and swatting at the bugs as they scramble to their feet. Damn it, who was supposed to be on watch? Sirena? She must've fallen asleep.

"The lake!" Clove cries, recalling it from earlier. "The lake!" At this point it's their only hope, and the group takes off.

She's barely aware of Glimmer and Sirena shouting somewhere behind her, of Marvel sprinting several yards ahead, of Cato's hand pressed against the center of her back, pushing her onward and ahead of himself. The only thing on her mind is _run._

In the aftermath, as the fresh water of the lake cleanses the stinging welts on her skin and as two cannons fire, Clove can't bring herself to feel sorry that Glimmer didn't survive.

* * *

"Someone's in a good mood."

"What?"

"You. you're happy," Marvel grins at her as they watch Cato's confrontation with Peeta an hour or so later, Cato screaming at the smaller boy for helping Fire Girl escape.

Clove scoffs, crossing her arms. "What makes you say that?"

Marvel shrugs, eyes not leaving the scene before them. "Well, I don't know. You just didn't seem too fond of— _oof,_ yep, that's a stab right there—of my district partner."

She shakes her head as Cato pulls his sword from the moaning boy on the ground, examining the blood on its blade before stalking back over. "No offense," she says, looking up at her ally, "but her death means I'm one step closer to winning this thing."

Marvel only cocks one eyebrow, almost disbelievingly. "Right," is all he says. And then the conversation is over, as Cato finally joins them and they continue their trek through the woods.

* * *

The rule change is announced on Day 13, a few days after Marvel's death, while Clove and Cato are packing their sleeping bags in order to keep moving. There can be two victors, so long as they're from the same district.

They both freeze, staring at each other as this information processes. Clove isn't sure what comes over her, but before she can think twice she's dropping her pack to the ground and surging forward and wrapping her arms around Cato's abdomen, under his arms. Her eyes and mouth remain open in shock, brow furrowed. They can both go home. They can both live.

She's surprised when his own arms encircle her as well, albeit hesitantly at first, but eventually strong and firm. She feels him bury his face in the crook of her neck, arms tightening impossibly more around her frame. He barks out a laugh, lifting his head, and she steps away from him, though they continue to grasp each other's forearms.

"We're going home," says Cato in disbelief. "We're going home. Both of us."

All she can do is nod in agreement as she allows the giddy smile to creep onto her features, completely unashamed.

_We're going home._

* * *

There's going to be a feast. The perfect opportunity for them to take out the remaining tributes in bulk. Not to mention whatever there is for them, something they "desperately need."

"What do you think it is?" says Cato that night, from where he's perched on a log, moving leaves around with his sword.

Clove shrugs, leaning against a tree. "No clue. Food, maybe? Since she destroyed ours."

Cato's eyes flash at the mention of their sabotaged stash, and he stabs at the ground. "Could be. We've been doing okay on food, though. I feel like it would be unnecessary."

She hums in agreement, though her mind is elsewhere. Ever since the first announcement, the one that will let them both go home, Cato has been... different. More willing to talk to her, to help her. Just... less distant. Logically speaking, perhaps he was initially trying to keep her at arm's length due to their history, in an attempt to feel _less_ in the event that it should come down to just them, where one would have to kill the other. And now he feels safer, more comfortable, since they can finally win together.

She's angry with herself for hoping this to be true. Since when does she care if Cato is _friendly_ or not?

"So obviously I'll go for the gift," says Cato, snapping her out of her thoughts. "You can stay back on the perimeter, take out anyone who tries to come for me."

Clove blinks. What? "Um, no," she says. "No way. I'm going in."

"No. You're not. Terrible idea."

She scoffs, pushing off from the tree and stepping closer to where he sits. "Who put _you_ in charge?"

Cato stands to his full height, looking down at her as usual. "I did," he says. "It makes more sense for me to go for the Cornucopia. You've got range, I don't. It's that simple."

"Simple. Really?" she retorts, cocking her head to the side. Is he serious? "Cato, I'm smaller. Quicker. I can get in and get out with no problem. I'll attract less attention than you would just barreling right in there with your spear drawn."

"You mean the spear that'll tell everyone to back off?"

"No, I mean the spear that gives you limited protection," she snaps. "I can pick them off. I throw knives. Plural."

"Yeah, from a distance. So you can guard me."

Clove growls in frustration, running a hand over the top of her head. "Are you even _hearing_ yourself right now?"

"Are you?"

"Cato. If I throw and miss, I get another chance. You don't," she reasons. He was never the rational one. "Besides," she says. "If Twelve shows up, I want her. I'll give everyone a good show, I swear it." If this doesn't convince him, she isn't sure what will.

"You _can't,_ Clove!" he says, voice raising. So, apparently that didn't work.

"Why the hell not?" she demands, her tone matching his. "Do you not think I'm _capable?_ Is that it? You don't think I can do it?"

"No, that's not it!"

"Then what is?"

_"I just can't lose you!"_

A few birds fly from their trees at the loudness of his voice, and Clove can only stare at him, letting his words sink in. "Wh-what do you—" she begins, but he cuts her off.

"Just because—I mean, because we need to win together," he says, blinking as though trying to backpedal. "If we have the opportunity to both be victors, then why the hell shouldn't we take it, right? So... so you can't die, because we need to win. Make history. Our district is counting on us."

"You sure that's why, Hadley?" she asks after a moment of silence. Her voice has dropped down a few octaves, but she keeps the edge. "Because I don't think you are."

His gaze snaps back up to her her, and he opens his mouth to speak but she beats him to it. "Heartless," she continues, reciting the advice that has been drilled into her brain ever since she was ten years old. "You have to be heartless, Cato. You can't afford to feel anything. Not here."

If anything, she's reminding _herself_ of this. She can feel herself beginning to care, and she's worried. She needs to end it, and quickly.

He quiets at her words, and for a moment she thinks she's won. But then he shakes his head and crosses over to his sleeping bag, tossing his sword on the ground beside him. "I'm not arguing this anymore," he says. "I'm tired. You take first watch. I'm going in the morning."

Her mouth drops open at his bluntness. He's just... dropping it? Right now?

Her expression darkens. Coward.

_Fine, then,_ Clove decides with an annoyed huff as she sits down on the log he occupied only minutes ago. _I'll just do it myself._

* * *

As it turns out, she doesn't need to sneak away as she originally planned to. The next morning, Cato seems to have changed his mind.

"I don't like it," he says. "Not at all. But you're right—you've got more chances than I do."

She smirks triumphantly at him, but his glare causes her to drop it. "I'll be at the clearing, scouting," he says with finality. "But the minute I sense trouble, I'm stepping in, understand?"

"Yes, Mom," Clove says, rolling her eyes. He scowls at her.

"This isn't a fucking game, Clove."

"Well, technically, it—"

"Shut up. I still think this is a terrible idea, just so we're clear. You promised me a good show, and that's what I'm expecting," he tells her.

She nods in affirmation. For a moment she considers bringing up his other words from last night, about not losing her. She must have spent hours turning the phrase over and over in her mind, trying to decipher just what he meant by it. She decides against it, though, not in the mood for another argument.

They can settle it later, after she returns to their camp.

The morning ticks by as they munch on jerky for breakfast, talk strategy, and prepare for the next steps in the arena. Before Clove knows it, it's time to go. They begin their hike toward the Cornucopia, walking in relative silence. When they finally reach the clearing they turn to each other, neither saying a word. Cato's arms twitch as he frowns, seeming to have an inner battle with himself. He begins to lift an arm, then retracts it, and finally raises it again, placing an awkward hand on her shoulder.

He opens his mouth to speak, and Clove thinks he's about to say something heavy. However, he hesitates, and instead leaves it at a simple, "Be careful."

Her eyes narrow infinitesimally. She knows that isn't what he wanted to say, can see it in his eyes. She doesn't press it. "Don't worry about me," she tells him with confidence. "Just keep me covered and we've got nothing to worry about. We'll meet back at camp in ten minutes, tops."

He removes his hand from her shoulder. "I'll see you then," he says with an affirmative nod. She returns it, and with that, he turns and heads east, spear drawn and on the lookout for other tributes.

Clove watches his retreating figure for only a moment before turning to face the Cornucopia, its golden coat gleaming in the afternoon sun. She figures she'll wait until at least one other tribute shows, hopefully Girl on Fire, as she has no idea if there may be any tricks or traps on the journey there.

She doesn't have to wait long.

* * *

She's only barely touched the blade to 12's lips when suddenly, she's in the air. A surprised scream rips its way out of her throat. It's the massive boy from 11; she doesn't remember him being so large. His eyes burn as he settles his glare on her, his hand caught around her throat. For the first time in her life, Clove is paralyzed with fear.

He tosses her to the ground, and she lands roughly on her elbows, wind knocked out of her. "What'd you do to that little girl?" he demands. "You kill her?"

"No!" she denies, truthfully. "No, it wasn't me!" She scrambles away from the looming figure before her, stopping only when her back hits the cool metal of the Cornucopia. She shouldn't have bragged, she thinks, shouldn't have taken credit for that little girl's death, not when Cato, her only source of coverage, is so far away.

"You said her name. I heard you," 11 insists, the fire not leaving his eyes. "You kill her? You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?"

"No!" she says again. "No, I—" And then she sees it. The rock in his hand, the one she knows is meant for her. Again the fear takes over, and she's screaming once more. She's not ready to die. She's not supposed to. This can't be happening.

"Cato!" she shrieks, and she no longer cares about sounding tough and infallible. _"Cato!"_

She hears his voice calling back, but it's far. So far. It's futile, she realizes as her gaze settles out on the woods. She can't even see him yet. He won't make it in time.

_He was right._

Before she sees it she hears it, the _whoosh_ of air as the rock is brought down, followed by a deafening crunch. And then everything is muffled, ringing, bright, _spinning._ She's barely aware of the exchange happening between 11 and 12, nearly misses Cato's second cry of her name.

The world blurs and her head throbs, and suddenly she is scared because she no longer knows where she is, why she's here. A game, a kill... did she win? Why does she feel like she let somebody down? She doesn't know.

What she does know, however, is that she's dying. She can feel it in the ever-fading beat of her heart.

* * *

As soon as he hears her panicked scream, Cato is off running without a second thought. She isn't calling for him to help her finish someone off, no. He knows her. She's calling for him because she is terrified, staring death in the face.

_Clove_ and _Terrified_ sound foreign together.

"Clove!" he shouts, if only to let her know that he heard. He barrels through the woods, nearly makes it to the clearing when his eyes catch the scene before him. It's District 11, appearing to be exchanging words with a smaller figure on the ground, a girl. Is it Clove?

And then 11 takes off running, two large backpacks slung over his shoulder, toward the field behind the Cornucopia. The smaller girl also stumbles away, dark braid flying behind her, bow clutched tightly in her hand. Which means...

He sees her then, only a single body lying broken on the ground. His heart stops. "Clove!" he screams again, and this time it is feral and desperate and pleading. He knows he should be chasing after one of the fleeing tributes, knows that it's what she'll want him to be doing, but right now that's the last thing on his mind as he picks up speed. Too slow. He's moving too slow.

He practically slides into the ground beside her, clutching his spear so tightly his knuckles turn white. "Clove!" he repeats, because it's all he _can_ say. For a moment she looks fine, maybe only shocked, as her gaze is cast upward. Slowly, her eyes turn to meet his, her lips struggling to form words. He knows something is wrong, though, knows it as soon as he realizes her eyes aren't _really_ meeting his own. He wonders if she even sees him at all.

He notices it when her head lolls to one side—the dent in her skull, right at her temple. There is no external bleeding but it's already beginning to bruise, ugly and purple and mottled and standing out far too much against the paleness of her skin. He wants to vomit. Deep down, as he reaches to cradle her head in his hands, he knows this is it. This is the end. But that doesn't mean he has to believe it just yet.

"Clove, come on," he begs, and it's strange because he has never begged for anything in his life. "Stay with me, Clove, please!"

All she can manage is a pained moan, eyes fluttering as she attempts to keep them open. She looks at him again, face devoid of emotion as if she's struggling to even recognize his face.

"No, no, no," says Cato. "Damn it, Clove, you can't _do_ this! We... we have to win! Come _on!_ "

She makes a movement, sluggish and hesitant, what seems to be shaking her head. _No,_ she's telling him. _Stop._

This is not her. This frail, unresponsive shell of a person is not Clove Kentwell. Clove Kentwell is fiery, aggressive, _sharp._

This is not the girl he knows, because the girl he knows is already dead.

"God, what were you _thinking?_ " he continues, even though he knows she won't answer. He's struggling to fight the tears that burn his eyes, the lump in his throat.

Her gaze is growing distant again, and he knows he's losing her. Suddenly he doesn't care about his reputation anymore, as he watches the light begin to fade from her dark, beautiful eyes. For one moment, he doesn't want to be the murderous machine from District 2. How can he, when Clove is here, dying, right in his arms?

He lets himself release a single, choked sob. "You're so _stupid_ Clove, I told you this was a terrible idea. I _told_ you."

She doesn't respond. The only indication that she may have heard him lies in the slight twitch of her brows as her lips begin to move. With seemingly-great effort, she utters a single word. When she does, her voice is hoarse and ragged. "S-orry."

He shakes his head. He can't let her die thinking it was her fault. "It's okay," he tells her. "It's okay, you... you were good. You did _so good,_ Clove, you hear me?"

She only blinks, as if trying to process his words, before her lips quirk upwards in something that is just shy of a smile. "Good," she says. "Th-thanks."

Her eyelids flutter again, this time closing completely. Her head falls sideways in his lap, so the dented side isn't showing. It looks like she's sleeping. "Clove," says Cato, his eyes darting around her face. "Clove," he repeats. No answer. _"Clove!"_ he all but screams this time. "Clove, no, I... I never—"

The cannon fires.

"NO!" he cries. "No, no, no, no, no, no, _no!_ " He doesn't stop the tears this time as he clutches her face in his hands. Weakness be damned; he doesn't care anymore. Clove is dead, he thinks. Clove is dead. Clove is dead. Clove is _dead._

His breathing picks up as he feels the anger build in his chest. He throws his spear with all his might at the Cornucopia, a feral cry ripping its way from his throat. He whips his face up toward the sky, unable to keep the scowl off of his face. "This is on _you!_ " he screams. "Her blood is on _your_ hands!"

As he speaks, his words are wet and garbled and thick with emotion. Emotion—what a funny and foreign thing, he thinks. He can't recall a time he ever felt it. Maybe the night before the Games, when they were arguing and then they... or when they would train together and she would laugh at him and his quips... when he saw her in that dress at the interviews and his heart kicked up...

It's always been Clove, he realizes as he brings his gaze back down to her limp form. Clove, the girl he trained with, the girl he fought with, the girl he _wanted to be with._ She's the one who made him go against his training, against his _programming._ And it took her death for him to realize it.

He thinks back a few days, to when the first announcement was made. He was so _hopeful_ that they could have gone home, could have brought pride to their district and lived the rest of their lives hand-in-hand as the first-ever dual victors of the Hunger Games. They could have been _happy._

Happy.

Something snaps inside of him then, now broken beyond repair. He feels himself rapidly becoming the monster he always knew he could be—knew he _would_ be much earlier, if it hadn't been for Clove to ground him, to keep him rational and sane.

But now she's gone. Clove is gone, along with any semblance of whatever sanity she brought him.

He lays her head down on the ground as gently as he can before rising to his feet and storming to the Cornucopia. He picks up his spear, and as an afterthought approaches Clove's body again, unable to look at her face, and pulls back one side of her jacket to select the most wicked-looking dagger he can find.

Straightening, Cato's gaze locks on the field to his left. His eyes are ablaze with fury and his nostrils flare as he grits his teeth. He has only one more thought before he takes off, before he hears the rumbling of the hovercraft as it enters the arena.

_11 is mine._

* * *

When he finally does catch 11, it is the dead of night and the sky has opened up. Rain pelts down against them and thunder rumbles overhead, the only source of light being the occasional flash of lightning that illuminates the arena.

They've been fighting for what feels like hours, sword against sickle. Their sizes and strength are similar enough that they're evenly matched, so the battle is more a test of will than anything else. Cato is driven by nothing other than scorn—11 has taken too much from him. He took his Feast prize, he took his district partner. Cato is bitter, jaded, vengeful. It keeps the adrenaline pumping through his veins, gives him the energy to fight like he never has before.

Eventually, 11 slips up. He steps back awkwardly on his right foot when Cato delivers a particularly harsh blow, slipping in the muddy ground and staggering off-balance. Cato takes his chance. Disarming his opponent, he kicks the weapon as far away as possible before tackling 11 to the ground.

It's close-quarter now and Cato easily incapacitates the other boy, running his sword straight through one massive hand, effectively pinning it to the ground. He revels in the howl of pain it produces, grins devilishly at the crunch of bones and tendons and ligaments as the blade slices clean through. With one hand taken care of, Cato easily takes the boy's other hand between his own two, making quick work of twisting it around. His hand is left mangled and facing in nearly the opposite direction from which it is meant to.

11 thrashes as best he can, his powerful legs proving to be a problem. Cato is running out of weapons, eventually figuring his spear will have to suffice as he drives it straight through the flesh of the other boy's leg, the one diagonal from the hand he punctured only moments ago. Another shout of pain, and Cato only laughs.

"My _god,_ you really aren't so tough after all, are you?" he taunts. He can taste blood on his lip from where he was clipped early in the brawl, feel a throbbing cut just above his left brow. It mixes with the rain and the sweat, creating a slick and slippery mixture that he's sure makes him look like a madman. 11 continues to struggle, though Cato thinks he looks awfully pathetic with only one leg free.

Lightning flashes, reflecting in the other boy's eyes, bright with stubborn defiance. "You gonna kill me?" he asks, voice strained. "Get revenge on me for killing your little girlfriend?"

Cato socks him in the nose. "Don't you _dare_ bring her up," he growls. "The only reason you should even be _thinking_ about Clove," he continues, reaching for the dagger that's concealed by his belt, "is the fact that it's her blade that'll do you in." He brandishes the weapon, dangling it between 11's eyes. "I like to call it poetic justice."

Without another word he drives the blade downward with a force only attainable by a madman scorned, directly into the heart of his enemy. Thunder rumbles as the cannon sounds, and a jagged bolt of lightning splits the sky in two.

Poetic justice, indeed.

* * *

Cato always thought heartbreak was a myth, a legend made up in his district to scare the children away from love. Surely a heart couldn't _break._ A heart is an organ, one that is necessary for living, not a machine that can malfunction at the drop of a hat.

Still, as he lies in the mouth of the Cornucopia, bloody and tired and defeated as the mutts tear away at him, he can't help but feel a pang in his chest at the thought that those so-called _lovers_ have the chance to go home together. The chance that he and Clove were robbed of.

He wanted to leave the Girl on Fire with the same emptiness that he is feeling now. Wanted to bring Lover Boy down with him. Then she would know what it feels like to lose, what it feels like to have everything stripped away in only a few short seconds.

"I can still do this," he told her with a broken, bloody grin. "One last kill. That's the only thing I know how to do."

Too late, though, he felt it—the deliberate _X_ being traced against his hand, and then he was falling, falling, falling.

The sun is beginning to rise and he doesn't feel anything anymore, having given in to the mutts that have finally torn through his armor. They won't let him die and he knows that this is the gamemakers' doing—anything for a show.

He can see the other two tributes up on the Cornucopia, and he tries to call out in his dazedly numb state. The girl looks down at him before disappearing. She materializes soon after, bow raised and arrow notched. Her expression is one of pity, and Cato hates her for it.

_Don't pity me,_ he thinks bitterly. _I'm finally free._

He replays familiar words in his mind. _Heartless. You have to be heartless, Cato. You can't afford to feel anything._

Love, heartbreak, both taboo subjects in the district of stone. Clove understood. She tried to warn him, tried to deter him from all of it when she realized what was happening. She tried to remind him that feeling would get him killed. And, as always, she was right. He should have listened.

They are Careers. They are warriors. Their hearts cannot break because they were raised not to have them.

But in those final few seconds before the arrow pierces his skull, Cato realizes that the notion is loaded. The statement is a lie.

All things are made to be broken.

 


End file.
